“Actually, there was someone. Hipster type. We didn’t really go out go out.”
“It’s the snogging that would worry me.”
“It didn’t seem like an issue. If you fancy them, it doesn’t matter if there’s a horn growing out of their head.”
“Oh, you know that guy too?”
“You realize they’re not allowed to snog their patients.”
“My mother’s his patient. And in any case, I’m not going to snog him! Why would I snog him?”
“You brought it up!”
“Did I?”
“I actually know someone who was struck off for sleeping with one of his patients.”
“No!”
“Such a shame, all that medical training down the drain. It only happened once, he was a great guy, and the sad part is, he was a really good vet.”
Daisy spits fragments of curried chickpeas and mango chutney at the plate glass window.
“Chantal! I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“You can tell that one to your doctor friend.”
“He’s not my doctor.”
“But you like him.”
“It’d be like kissing a hedge.”
“You’ve said that.”
“How can she stand it?”
“Who?”
“His wife, girlfriend, whoever. He said we about something.”
“Could be a he.”
“He’s so not gay.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s a bit of a shambles. Baggy trousers. Tragic trainers.”
“Hmm. Okay, probably not gay then.”
Chloe’s kettle informs me that my presence is requested in Mrs. Parsloe’s kitchen.
And sure enough I arrive to discover Daisy’s mother standing before her (dumb as a post) fridge, tapping on its door saying things like “yoohoo!” and “hello-oh, anybody there?”
(I may have created a monster.)
“Good morning, Chloe,” I say in my best calm and faithful servant voice. “How may I be of assistance?”
“There you are!” she says. “Finally!”
“I apologize for the delay. I can report the fault if you wish me to.”
“Never mind about that. I need some help with this infernal crossword. I’m sure they’re making them harder, you know.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
“Bar of soap. Three words. Three, six and six.”
A small flash of something close to panic as the answer does not immediately spring to mind. In fact—and it shames me to admit this—it takes a full one and a half seconds for the mainframes in Seoul to generate the solution; bar in this instance referencing a place where alcoholic beverages are consumed, and soap (it turns out) being shorthand for a TV soap opera, the longest-running of which in the United Kingdom is called Coronation Street—I must try and catch it some time—which features a public house entitled The Rovers Return (3,6,6).
Chloe is enchanted. “You’re better at this than Mrs. Abernethy, and that’s saying something!”
“You flatter me, madam.” (I am going to stop with this ridiculous Jeeves impression any second.)
“Look here. That ‘s’ helps with four down. Amundsen’s forwarding address. Four letters. Blank, blank, ‘s,’ blank.”
The answer pops into my brain before she has finished speaking, but no one likes a clever-clogs, do they? I allow Mrs. Parsloe a few moments to derive the solution for herself; sadly, however, I fear her mind may be as snowy white and vacant as Herr Amundsen’s old stamping ground down at the South Pole.
“I believe the clue refers to the cry the great Antarctic explorer employed to drive on his sleigh dogs.”
A long pause. “Mush!”
“Indeed.”
“I got one!”
“Congratulations, madam.”
“Shall we have a cup of tea to celebrate?”
“An excellent plan.”
“I nearly asked if you’d like a biscuit!”
“A lovely thought. But I do have to watch my figure.”
A long moment while Mrs. Parsloe stares at her ancient refrigerator. (Note to self: no more jokes.)
While Daisy’s mum rattles about with the tea things, her TV set, who has heard all, cannot help itself.
“You know what you sound like?” it says.
“Tell me.”
“A prize wally.”
“Your client is from a generation for whom good manners were paramount.”
Over Earl Grey and chocolate digestives, we complete the rest of the puzzle, only struggling with a corner where Chloe has mysteriously (and incorrectly) inserted the word arse. When she mentions her daughter—in the context of a forthcoming return visit by the bearded memory man—I take the opportunity to do a little fishing.
“How old is Daisy, Mrs. Parsloe? Do you mind if I ask?”
“Not at all. Ask me anything.”
I wait to receive an answer (which of course I already know), but I fear she has already forgotten that I raised the question. “Daisy would be, what sort of age? Twenty-eight, perhaps?”
“Oh, older than that, I should think. Hard to be specific. It’s a shame you can’t eat biscuits. You don’t know what you’re missing!”
“Indeed not.” I take a risk. “Is she married?”
“Who?”
“Daisy. Your daughter.”
“No, thank God.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why do I say it? Awful taste in men. Simply awful. The ones I’ve met have been an absolute shower.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I liked her first proper boyfriend, he was a lovely chap. Wonderful hair. Brought me flowers! But the rest have been utterly useless.”
A remarkably clear-eyed view, I would have thought, from a member of the demented community. I chance another small advance into difficult terrain.
“Why do you suppose she hasn’t found anyone yet?”
“You are an inquisitive character!”
“I apologize.”
“Not at all. It’s refreshing to talk to someone sensible for a change. Mrs. Abernethy… well, she means well, but she’s so blooming churchy!”
“A believer.”
“I can’t be doing with all that claptrap. Christ died for our sins! I tell her to put a sock in it. Not in those exact words, of course.”
“You don’t yourself subscribe to any religious tradition.”
“We were brought up Church of England. But I never believed a word of it. Not one word. Not for a single second.”
It won’t surprise you to hear that fridge-freezers (machines generally) are without supernatural belief and something makes me want to clap and cheer Mrs. Parsloe’s endorsement of a Godless universe. The “old girl” may be short of a few marbles, but she hasn’t entirely taken leave of her senses.
“Listen,” she says. “I’ve had one of my brilliant ideas.” And then immediately adds. “Oh. Merde. It won’t work.”
“Would you care to share it
